SYLVIA; 


OR, 


THE    LAST    SHEPHERD. 


SYLVIA; 


OK, 


THE   LAST    SHEPHERD. 


AN  ECLOGUE. 


'BY     Xi 
THOMAS    BUCHANAN    READ. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PARRY    &     MCM  I  L  L  A  N, 

SUCCESSORS  TO  A.  HART.  LATE  CAREY  &  HART. 

1857. 


«5* 


V* 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1857,  by 

PARRY  &  MCMILLAN, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


STEREOTYPED  BY  L.  JOHNSON  &  CO. 
PHILADELPHIA. 


PRINTED  BY  T.   K.  &  P.  G.   COLLINS. 


TO 


C  C0tonsnt>, 


To  you,  my  friend,  whose  youthful  feet  have  known 
The  same  bright  hills  and  valleys  as  my  own ; 
Whose  eye  learned  beauty  from  the  selfsame  scene, 
Which,  still  remembered,  keeps  our  pathways  green  ; 
From,  the  same  minstrel-stream  and  poet-birds 
Learned  what  I  oft  would  fain  recall  in  words : — 
To  you  I  bring  this  handful  of  wild  flowers, 
By  memory  plucked  from  those  dear  fields  of  ours  ; 
And  when  their  freshness  and  their  perfume  die, 
On  friendship's  shrine  still  let  them  fondly  lie. 


M181632 


CONTENTS. 


SYLVIA;   OR,  THE  LAST  SHEPHERD. 

PAGE 

PRELUDE — THE  MOWERS 13 

THE  ECLOGUE 17 

CONCLUSION — THE  MOURNFUL  MOWERS 53 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

THE  BLESSED  DEAD 61 

THE  PHANTOM  LEADERS 64 

THE  GREAT  SURVEY — A  SONG  OF  FREMONT'S  MEN 69 

A  BIRTHDAY  THOUGHT  IN  ITALY. — INSCRIBED  TO  Miss 

S.  R.  B 75 

THE  STAYED  CURSE 78 

ALICIA 82 

ELLA...  .    84 


10  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

TWENTY-ONE. — SOME  BIRTHDAY  LINES  TO  J.  R.  T 86 

BEATRICE 91 

HERO  AND  LEANDER — IN  MARBLE  BY  STEINHAUSER 92 

MY  FRIEND .  95 

WINTER 98 

THE  BLIGHTED  FLOWER 99 

THE  DEATH  or  THE  VETERAN — AN  INCIDENT  DURING 

THE  MEXICAN  WAR 101 

EVENING  IN  WINTER 112 

A  PLEA  FOR  THE  HOMELESS 115 

THE  CELESTIAL  ARMY 118 

AIRS  FROM  ALPLAND. 

THE  LISTENERS 127 

THE  FAIR  PILGRIM 129 

SONG  OF  ST.  BERNARD 132 

THE  CHAMOIS  HUNTER 136 

SONG  OF  THE  CHAMOIS  HUNTER 142 

THE  WARNING 145 

STORM  ON  ST.  BERNARD 147 

FANCIES  IN  THE  FIRELIGHT,  IN  THE  CONVENT  OF  ST. 

BERNARD 154 


SYLVIA; 

OE, 

THE    LAST    SHEPHERD. 


PRELUDE. 


THE   MOWERS. 

"HERE    mid  the  clover's  crimson  realm 

We'll  rest  us  through  the  glowing  noon, 
Beneath  this  broad  and  liberal  elm, 
Slow  nodding  to  his  hundredth  June. 

"On  this  low  branch  our  scythes  shall  sway, 

Fresh  reeking  from  the  field  in  bloom; 
While,  breathing  o'er  the  new-mown  hay, 
The  air  shall  fan  us  with  perfume. 

13 


14  SYLVIA;  OR, 

"And  here  the  cottage  maid  shall  spread 

The  viands  on  the  stainless  cloth, — 
The  golden  prints,  the  snow-white  bread, 
The  chilly  pitcher  crowned  with  froth. 

"And  you,  fair  youth,  whose  shepherd  look 

Brings  visions  of  the  pastoral  time, — 
Your  hay-fork  shouldered  like  a  crook, 

Your  speech  the  natural  voice  of  rhyme,- 
i 
"Although  the  world  is  far  too  ripe 

To  hark, —  or,  hearkening,  would  disdain,- 
Come,  pour  along  your  fancied  pipe 
The  music  of  some  rustic  strain. 

<:We'll  listen  as  we  list  the  birds, — 

And,  being  pleased,  will  hold  it  wise; 
And  deem  we  sit  mid  flocks  and  herds 
Beneath  the  far  Arcadian  skies." 


THE    LAST    SHEPHERD. 

Thus  spake  the  mowers;  while  the  maid, 
The  fairest  daughter  of  the  realm, 

Stood  twining  in  the  happy  shade 
A  wreath  of  mingled  oak  and  elm. 

And  this,  with  acorns  interwound, 

And  violets  inlaid  with  care, 
Fame's  temporary  priestess  bound 

In  freshness  round  her  druids  hair. 

The  breeze  with  sudden  pleasure  played, 
And,  dancing  in  from  bough  to  bough, 

Let  one  slant  sunbeam  down,  which  stayed 
A  moment  on  the  crowned  brow. 

The  birds,  as  with  a  newborn  thrill, 
Sang  as  they  only  sing  at  morn, 

While  through  the  noon  from  hill  to  hill 
Echoed  the  winding  harvest-horn. 


16  SYLVIA;    OR,    THE   LAST   SHEPHERD. 

With  upturned  face  and  lips  apart, 
He  mused  a  little,  but  not  long; 

For  clustered  in  his  boundless  heart 
Sang  all  the  morning-stars  of  song. 


SYLYIA; 


OR 


THE    LAST    SHEPHEKD. 


THE  ECLOGUE. 


T. 


IN  middle  of  a  noble  space, 

Of  antique  wood  and  boundless  plain, 
Queen  Sylvia,  regent  of  all  grace, 
Held  long-descended  reign. 

The  diadem  her  forehead  wore 

Was  her  bright  hair,  a  golden  band; 
And  she,  as  sceptre,  ever  bore 
A  distaff  in  her  hand. 

19 


20  SYLVIA;  OR, 

In  russet  train,  with  rustling  tread, 

She  walked  like  morning,  dewy-eyed, 
And  like  Saint  Agnes,  ever  led 
A  white  lamb  at  her  side. 

And  she  to  all  the  flowery  land 

Was  dear  as  are  the  summer  skies; 
And  round  her  waving  mulberry-wand 
Swarmed  all  the  butterflies. 

Queen  was  she  of  the  flaxen  skein, 
And  empress  of  the  snowy  fleece, 
And  o'er  the  silkworm's  small  domain 
Held  guard  in  days  of  peace. 


THE   LAST   SHEPHERD.  21 


II. 


To  own  her  sway  the  woods  were  proud, 

The  solemn  forest,  wreathed  and  old ; 
To  her  the  plumed  forests  bowed 
Their  rustling  ranks  of  gold. 

Mantled  in  majesty  complete, 

She  walked  among  her  flocks  and  herds; 
Where'er  she  moved,  with  voices  sweet, 
Sang  all  her  laureate  birds. 


22  SYLVIA;    OR, 

All  happy  sounds  waved  softly  near, 

With  perfume  from  the  fields  of  dew; 
From  every  hill,  bold  chanticleer 
His  silver  clarion  blew. 

The  bees  her  honey-harvest  reaped, 

The  fields  were  murmurous  with  their  glee; 
And  loyal  to  her  hives,  they  heaped 
Her  waxen  treasury. 

All  pleasures  round  her  loved  to  press, 
To  sing  their  sweetest  madrigals;  — 
She  never  knew  the  weariness 

Which  dwells  in  grander  halls. 


THE   LAST   SHEPHERD. 


m. 


What  time  came  in  the  welcome  spring, 

The  happy  maiden  looked  abroad, 
And  saw  her  lover  gayly  fling 
The  flax  athwart  the  sod. 

Hither  and  thither  the  yellow  seed 

Young  Leon  sprinkled  o'er  the  plain, 
As  a  farmer  to  his  feathery  breed 
Full  hands  of  golden  grain. 


SYLVIA;   OR, 

As  o'er  the  yielding  mould  he  swayed, 

He  whistled  to  his  measured  tread 
A  happy  tune;   for  he  saw  the  maid 
Spinning  the  future  thread. 

Or  saw  the  shuttle  in  her  room 

Fly,  like  a  bird,  from  hand  to  hand; 
And  then  his  arm,  as  at  a  loom, 
Swung  wider  o'er  the  land. 

He  wondered  what  the  woof  would  be, — 

Or  for  the  poor,  or  for  the  proud? 
A  bridal  garment  fluttering  free? 
Or  formal  winding-shroud? 


THE    LAST    SHEPHERD.  25 


IV. 


THEN  May  recrossed  the  southern  hill, — 

Her  heralds  thronged  the  elms  and  eaves; 
And  Nature,  with  a  sudden  thrill, 
Burst  all  her  buds  to  leaves. 

Loud  o'er  the  slope  a  streamlet  flung 

Fresh  music  from  its  mountain  springs, 
As  if  a  thousand  birds  there  sung 
And  flashed  their  azure  wings. 


26  SYLVIA;  OR, 

"Flow  on,"  the  maiden  sang,  "and  whirl, 
Sweet  stream,  your  music  o'er  the  hill, 
And  touch  with  your  light  foot  of  pearl 
The  wheel  of  yonder  mill." 

It  touched  the  wheel,  and  in  the  vale 

Died  from  the  ear  and  passed  from  view, — 
Like  a  singing  bird  that  is  seen  to  sail 
Into  the  distant  blue; — 

Died  where  the  river  shone  below, 

Where  white  sails  through  the  vapour  glowed, 
Like  great  archangels  moving  slow 
On  some  celestial  road. 


THE   LAST    SHEPHERD.  27 


V. 


How  sweet  it  is  when  twilight  wakes 

A  many-voiced  eve  in  May, — 
When  Sylvia' s  western  casement  takes 
The  farewell  flame  of  day: 

When  cattle  from  the  upland  lead 

Or  drive  their  lengthening  shadows  home; 
While  bringing  from  the  odorous  mead 
Deep  pails  of  snowy  foam. 


SYLVIA;    OR, 

The  milkmaid  sings,  and,  while  she  stoops, 

Her  hands  keep  time;  the  night-hawk's  wail 
Pierces  the  twilight,  till  he  swoops 
And  mocks  the  sounding  pail. 

Then  sings  the  robin,  he  who  wears 

A  sunset  memory  on  his  breast, 
Pouring  his  vesper  hymns  and  prayers 
To  the  red  shrine  of  the  west. 

Deep  in  the  grove  the  woodland  sprites 

Start  into  frequent  music  brief; 
And  there  the  whip-poor-will  recites 
The  ballad  of  his  grief. 

The  ploughs  turn  home;    the  anvils  cease; 

The  forge  has  faded  with  the  sun; 
The  heart  of  the  loom  is  soothed  to  peace, 
And  the  toiling  day  is  done. 


THE    LAST    SHEPHERD. 


VI. 


A  LOVER'S  heart  hath  no  repose; 

'Tis  ever  thundering  in  his  ear 

The  story  of  his  joys  and  woes, — 

The  light  remote,  the  shadow  near. 

And  Leon,  penning  his  fleecy  stock, 

Felt  hope  as  painful  as  despair, 
While  one  by  one  heaven's  starry  flock 
Came  up  the  fields  of  air. 


30  SYLVIA;  OR, 

True  shepherd, — like  the  men  of  old,— 

He  knew  to  call  each  as  it  came; 
And,  as  his  flock  leaped  in  the  fold,, 
Each  had  a  starry  name. 

There,  clustered  close  in  slumbrous  peace, 
He  gazed  on  them  with  shepherd  pride, 
And  saw  each  deep  and  pillowy  fleece 
Through  Sylvia's  soft  hands  glide. 

In  that  still  hour,  where  none  might  mark, 

He  leaned  against  the  shadowy  bars ; 
Soft  tearlight  blurred  the  deepening  dark 
And  doubled  all  the  stars. 

And,  starlike,  through  the  valley  dim 
The  tapers  shot  their  guiding  rays ; 
But  one  there  was  which  seemed  to  him 
To  set  the  night  ablaze. 


THE    LAST   SHEPHERD.  31 

To  his  impatient  feet  it  flowed, 

A  stream  of  gold  along  the  sod; 
Then  like  the  road  to  glory  glowed 
The  love-lit  path  he  trod! 


32  SYLVIA;  OR, 


VII. 


OUT  of  her  tent,  as  one  afraid, 

The  moon  along  the  purple  field 
Stole  like  an  oriental  maid, 

Her  beauty  half  concealed. 

And,  peering  with  her  vestal  torch 

Between  the  vines  at  Sylvia's  door, 
She  saw  two  shadows  in  the  porch 
Pass  and  repass  the  floor. 


THE   LAST   SHEPHERD.  33 

On  the  far  hill  the  dreary  hound 
Saddened  the  evening  with  his  howl; 

In  the  near  grove — a  shuddering  sound 

Echoed  the  ominous  owl. 

Three  times,  as  at  a  robber  band, 

The  guardian  mastiff  leaped  his  chain; 
Three  times  the  hand  in  Leon's  hand 
Grew  chill  and  shook  with  pain. 

And  Sylvia  said,  "These,  Leon,  these 

Are  the  dismal  sounds  which  three  nights  past 
Came  herald  to  the  mysteries 
Of  dreams  too  sad  to  last. 


34  SYLVIA;  OR, 


VIII. 

"  FIRST  of  the  mournful  sights,  I  saw 

Our  flocks  fly  bleating  from  a  hound, 
And  many  a  one  his  savage  jaw 

Dragged  bleeding  to  the  ground. 

"The  rest  sought  shelter  in  despair, 

And  in  a  brake  were  robbed  and  torn; 
The  cruel  hound  had  an  ally  there 
In  every  brier  and  thorn. 


THE   LAST   SHEPHERD.  35 

"In  nightmare  chains  my  feet  were  set, 

For  I  could  neither  move  nor  scream : — 
Oh,  Leon,  it  makes  me  tremble  yet, 
Although  'twas  but  a  dream ! 


tt 


Anon  I  struggled  forth,  and  took 

From  off  our  mastiff's  neck  the  chain; 
He  leaped  the  gate,  he  leaped  the  brook, 
And  snarled  across  the  plain. 


"Then  how  they  fought!     My  sight  grew  dim, 

In  straining  to  the  field  remote : 
At  length  he  threw  that  bloodhound  grim, 
And  held  him  by  the  throat ! 


36  SYLVIA;  OR, 


IX. 


then  I  heard  your  neighing  train,- 
Its  silver  bells  rang  down  the  breeze,- 
And  saw  the  white  arch  of  your  wain 
Between  the  roadside  trees. 

"Announced  as  by  an  ocean  storm, 

A  horseman  from  the  east  in  ire 
Bode  to  retrieve  his  hound :  his  form 
Was  robed  in  scarlet  fire. 


THE    LAST    SHEPHERD.  37 

"But  when  you  saw  our  murdered  field — 

And  saw  in  midst  the  struggling  hounds — 
And  him  whose  sword  made  threat  to"  wield 
Destruction  o'er  our  grounds;  — 

"You  loosed  the  best  steed  of  your  team, 

And  seized  the  weapon  nearest  hand, — 
Then  sped  the  hill  and  leaped  the  stream, 
And  bade  the  invader  stand. 

"  Then  came  the  horrid  sight  and  sound : 

At  length  I  saw  the  foe  retreat, 
And  swooned  for  joy;  but  waking  found 
You  bleeding  at  my  feet ! 


38  SYLVIA;  OR, 


X. 


"I  bore  you  in;    with  my  own  hand 

I  tended  you  long  nights  and  days; 

And  heard  with  pride  how  all  the  land 

Was  ringing  with  your  praise. 

"But  when  your  deepest  wounds  were  well 

This,  Leon,  is  the  saddest  part, — 
A  lady  came  with  witching  spell, 

And  claimed  you,  hand  and  heart. 


THE   LAST   SHEPHERD.  39 

"She  came  in  all  her  southern  pride; 

And,  though  she  was  as  morning  bright, 
An  Afric  bondmaid  at  her  side 
Stooped  like  a  starless  night. 

"She  moved  as  she  were  monarch  born, 

And  smiled  her  sweetest  smile  on  you; 
But  scorned  me  with  her  lofty  scorn, 
Until  I  shrank  from  view. 

"When  you  were  gone,  all  hope  had  flown, — 

Grief  held  to  me  her  bitter  crust; 
My  distaff  droped,  my  loom  o'erthrowii 
Lay  trampled  in  the  dust. 


40  SYLVIA  I    OR, 


XL 


"I  KNOW  such  dreams  are  empty,  vain; 

And  yet  may  rest  upon  the  heart, 
Like  chillness  of  a  summer  rain 
After  the  clouds  depart. 

"And  still  the  dream  went  on: — each  hour 
Some  new-born  wonder  filled  the  dream 
First  came  the  labourers  to  o'erpower 
And  chain  our  little  stream. 


THE   LAST    SHEPHERD.  41 

"A  giant  prison-wall  they  made; — 

Our  brook,  recoiling  in  her  fears, 
Over  our  meadows  wildly  strayed, 

And  drowned  them  with  her  tears. 

"And  then  they  reared  a  stately  home, — 

Not  one,  but  many,  for  this  queen; 

The  gleam  of  tower  and  spire  and  dome 

Through  all  the  land  was  seen. 

"And  when  her  orgies  swelled  the  breeze, 

Loudly  a  mile  away  or  more 
"Was  borne  the  voice  of  her  revelries, 
The  rattle  and  the  roar. 


42  SYLVIA;  OR, 


xn. 

"You  grew  to  her  more  fond  and  near, 

And  mine  no  more!     An,  never  more 
You  brought  the  antlered  forest  deer 
And  laid  it  at  my  door. 

"And  ever  round  the  hall  and  hearth, 

These  branching  emblems  of  the  chase 
Mocked  me  with  memory  of  the  mirth 
Which  once  made  bright  the  place. 


THE   LAST   SHEPHERD.  43 

"No  more  'neath  autumn's  sun  or  cloud 

You  paid  to  me  the  pleasing  tax 
Of  labour  at  the  swingle  loud, 
Breaking  the  brittle  flax. 

"No  more  when  winter  walked  our  clime 

We  woke  the  evening-lighted  room, 
With  laugh  and  song,  still  keeping  time 
To  whirring  wheel  or  loom. 

"Nor  blazed  the  great  logs  as  of  yore, 

Cheered  with  the  cricket's  pastoral  song; 
The  cider  and  the  nuts  were  o'er, 
And  gone  the  jovial  throng. 

"The  hearth  was  basely  narrowed  down; 

The  antlered  walls  were  stripped  and  bare; 
The  oaken  floor  no  more  was  known, — 
A  foreign  woof  was  there. 


44 


SYLVIA;  OR, 


XIII. 


"AND  never  more  your  ringing  team 

Made  music  in  our  nappy  dale; 
Instead,  an  earthquake  winged  with  steam 
Koared  through  our  sundered  vale. 

"And  where  yon  river  seaward  runs, 

The  white-winged  barges  ceased  to  roam 
Instead,  came  great  leviathans 

Trampling  the  waves  to  foam. 


THE   LAST   SHEPHERD.  45 

"And  there  was  rushing  to  and  fro, 

As  if  the  nation  suddenly 
Made  haste  to  meet  some  foreign  foe 
Impending  on  the  sea. 

"And  all  this  horrid  roar  and  rage — 
The  clash  of  steel  and  flash  of  ire 
Was  the  giant  march  of  the  Conquering  Age 
Flapping  his  flags  of  fire  ! 

"He  strode  the  land  from  east  to  west: — 

Then  death  in  my  despair  was  sweet, 
And  soon  above  my  buried  breast 
Trampled  the  world's  loud  feet. 

"The  dreary  dream  is  past  and  told; 
But,  Leon,  swear  to  still  be  true, 
Even  though  with  charms  a  thousandfold 
A  queen  should  smile  on  you." 


46  SYLVIA;  OR, 

This,  Leon  swore, — swore  still  to  pay 

The  fealty  he  long  had  borne; 
The  years  which  followed  best  can  say 
If  Leon  was  forsworn. 


THE   LAST   SHEPHERD.  47 


XIV. 


"FORSWORN!"     The  fields  all  sighed,  "  forsworn !" 

When  Sylvia  pined  into  her  shroud; 
And  all  the  pastures  lay  forlorn, 
O'ershadowed  with  a  cloud. 

The  homesteads  wept  with  childish  sob, 

" Forsworn  !"  and  every  wheel  was  dumb; 
The  looms  were  muffled,  each  low  throb 
Was  like  a  funeral  drum. 


48  SYLVIA;  OR, 

The  maidens  hid  in  Maytime  grots, 

Their  distaffs  twined  with  blossoms  sweet, 
With  pansies  and  forget-me-nots, 
And  laid  them  at  her  feet. 

"Forsworn!"  they  sighed,  and  sprinkled  o'er 
Her  breast  the  loveliest  flowers  of  May; 
And  then  these  fair  pall-bearers  bore 
Her  gentle  dust  away. 

" Forsworn!"     The  grandams  moved  about 

Like  useless  shadows  in  their  gloom; 
And  oft  they  brought  their  distaffs  out, 
And  sat  beside  her  tomb. 

"Forsworn!"     All  nature  sighs,  "forsworn!" 

And  Sylvia's  is  a  nameless  grave; 
The  blossoms  which  above  her  mourn 
Mid  tangled  grasses  wave. 


THE   LAST    SHEPHERD.  49 


XV. 


PROUD  Leon  sits  beside  his  bride, 

His  chariot  manned  by  Nubian  grooms,- 
His  lady  rustling  in  the  pride 
Of  stuffs  of  foreign  looms. 


Secure,  important,  and  serene, 

The  master  of  a  wide  domain, 
He  looks  abroad  with  lordly  mien, — 
This  once  poor  shepherd  swain. 
3 


50  SYLVIA;    OR,    THE   LAST   SHEPHERD. 

You  scarce  would  think  to  see  him  now, 

In  all  his  grandeur  puffed  and  full, 
He  e'er  had  guided  flock  or  plough 
In  simple,  homespun  wool. 

The  chain  of  gold  is  still  a  chain; — 

There  may  be  moments  he  would  pay 
The  bulk  of  all  his  marvelous  gain 
For  what  has  passed  away ! 


SYLYIA; 

OR, 

THE    LAST    SHEPHERD. 


THE   CONCLUSION. 


THE   MOURNFUL  MOWERS. 

THUS  sang  the  shepherd  crowned  at  noon, 

And  every  breast  was  heaved  with  sighs ;- 
Attracted  by  the  tree  and  tune, 

The  winged  singers  left  the  skies. 

t 

Close  to  the  minstrel  sat  the  maid; 

His  song  had  drawn  her  fondly  near: 
Her  large  and  dewy  eyes  betrayed 

The  secret  to  her  bosom  dear. 

53 


54  SYLVIA;  OR, 

The  factory  people  through  the  fields, 
Pale  men  and  maids  and  children  pale, 

Listened,  forgetful  of  the  wheels, 

Till  the  loud  summons  woke  the  vale. 

And  all  the  mowers  rising  said, 

"The  world  has  lost  its  dewy  prime; 

Alas !  the  Golden  age  is  dead, 
And  we  are  of  the  Iron  time  ! 

"The  wheel  and  loom  have  left  our  homes,- 

Our  maidens  sit  with  empty  hands, 
Or  toil  beneath  yon  roaring  domes, 
And  fill  the  factory's  pallid  bands. 

"The  fields  are  swept  as  by  a  war, 

Our  harvests  are  no  longer  blithe ; 
Yonder  the  iron  mower's  car 

Comes  with  his  devastating  scythe. 


THE    LAST    SHEPHERD. 

"They  lay  us  waste  by  fire  and  steel, 

Besiege  us  to  our  very  doors; 

Our  crops  before  the  driving  wheel 

Fall  captive  to  the  conquerors. 

"The  pastoral  age  is  dead,  is  dead! 

Of  all  the  happy  ages  chief; 
Let  every  mower  bow  his  headj 
In  token  of  sincerest  grief. 

"And  let  our  brows  be  thickly  bound 

With  every  saddest  flower  that  blows; 
And  all  our  scythes  be  deeply  wound 
With  every  mournful  leaf  that  grows." 

Thus  sang  the  mowers;   and  they  said, 
"The  world  has  lost  its  dewy  prime; 

Alas !  the  Golden  age  is  dead, 
And  we  are  of  the  Iron  time !" 


56  SYLVIA;  OR, 

Each  wreathed  his  scythe  and  twined  his  head; 

They  took  their  slow  way  through  the  plain : 
The  minstrel  and  the  maiden  led 

Across  the  fields  the  solemn  train. 

The  air  was  rife  with  clamorous  sounds, 
Of  clattering  factory — thundering  forge, — 

Conveyed  from  the  remotest  bounds 
Of  smoky  plain  and  mountain  gorge. 

Here,  with  a  sudden  shriek  and  roar, 
The  rattling  engine  thundered  by; 

A  steamer  past  the  neighbouring  shore 
Convulsed  the  river  and  the  sky. 

The  brook  that  erewhile  laughed  abroad, 
And  o'er  one  light  wheel  loved  to  play, 

Now,  .like  a  Jelon,  groaning  trod 

Its  hundred  treadmills  night  and  day. 


THE   LAST    SHEPHERD.  57 

The  fields  were  tilled  with  steeds  of  steam, 
Whose  fearful  neighing  shook  the  vales; 

Along  the  road  there  rang  no  team, — 
The  barns  were  loud,  but  not  with  flails. 

And  still  the  mournful  mowers  said, 
"The  world  has  lost  its  dewy  prime; 

Alas !  the  Golden  age  is  dead, 
And  we  are  of  the  Iron  time  1" 


THE  BLESSED  DEAD. 


On,  happy  childhood !  tender  buds  of  spring 
Touched  in  the  Maytime  by  a  wandering  frost; 

Ye  have  escaped  the  summer's  sultry  wing: 

No  drought  hath  parched  you,  and  no  wind  hath  tossed, 

Shaking  the  pearls  of  morning  from  your  breast: 
Ye  have  been  gathered  ere  your  sweets  were  lost, 

Ere  winged  passions  stole  into  your  rest 
To  rob  the  heart  of  all  its  dewy  store. 

Now  in  'the  endless  Maytime  overhead, 
In  starry  gardens  of  the  azure  shore, 
Ye  bloom  in  light,  and  are  for  evermore 

The  blessed  dead. 

61 


62  THE   BLESSED   DEAD. 

Ye  youths  and  maidens,  dear  to  Joy  and  Love, 
But  fallen  midway  between  morn  and  noon, — 

Or  bird-like  flown,  as  if  some  longing  dove 

Should  seek  a  better  clinic  while  yet  'tis  June, 

Leaving  our  fields  forlorn  !     Oh,  happy  flight ! 
Gone  while  your  hearts  are  full  of  summer  tune, 

And  ignorant  of  the  autumnal  blight, — 

Ere  yet  a  leaf  hath  withered  on  the  bough 

Or  innocent  rose  hath  drooped  its  dying  head : 
Gone  with  the  virgin  lilies  on  your  brow, 
Ye,  singing  in  immortal  youth,  are  now 
The  blessed  dead. 

And  ye,  who  in  the  harvest  of  your  years 
Were  stricken  when  the  sun  was  in  mid  air, 

And  left  the  earth  bedewed  at  noon  with  tears, — 
Ye  have  known  all  of  life  that  is  most  fair, 

The  laugh  of  April  and  the  summer  bloom. 
Ye  with  the  orange-blossoms  in  your  hair, 

Who  sleep  in  bridal  chambers  of  the  tomb  5 


THE    BLESSED   DEAD.  63 

Or  ye,  who  with  the  sickle  in  the  hand 
Have  bowed  amid  the  sheaves  the  manly  head, 
And  left  the  toil  unto  a  mournful  band, — 
Ye  all  are  numbered  in  yon  resting  land, 
The  blessed  dead. 

And  ye,  who  like  the  stately  upland  oak 
Breasted  the  full  allotted  storms  of  time, 

And  took  new  strength  from  every  gusty  stroke, — 
And  ye,  who  like  a  vine  long  taught  to  climb 

And  weigh  its  native  branches  with  ripe  fruit, — 
Much  have  ye  suffered  'neath  the  frosty  rime 

Which  autumn  brings  and  winter's  loud  dispute ! 
But  now,  transplanted  in  the  fields  afar, 

Your  age  is  like  a  withered  foliage  shed, — 

And  where  Youth's  fountain  sparkles  like  a  star, 
This  have  ye  learned,  they  only  live  who  are 
The  blessed  dead. 


THE  PHANTOM  LEADERS. 


BY  starlight  they  rode  in  their  speed  and  their  might, 
A  warrior  host  sweeping  down  through  the  night, — 
An  army  of  spectres,  they  sped  on  the  wind, 
With    swords    piercing    front    and    plumes    streaming 

behind; 

On  the  highways  of  air  they  were  led  as  by  Mars, 
While   their   steeds  shod  with  thunder  seemed  tramp 
ling  the  stars! 
Like   a  fleet    in    a    gale,    they    careered    through   the 

night, 

And  the  path  where  they  passed  flashed  with  phos 
phorous  light. 
64 


THE    PHANTOM    LEADERS.  65 

In  the  front  galloped  Brutus,  a  foe  to  all  peace, 
His  blade  gleaming  red  with   the   blood  of  Lucrece; 
And,  turning   towards   Rome,  bent  his  way  down  the 

heaven, 

Repeating  the  oath  which  of  old  he  had  given. 
"  These  modern  Tarquins  must  fall !"  was  his  cry ; 
"By  the   blade   of  their   own   bloody  guilt   they  shall 

die !" 

And,  strange  though  it  be,  there  Mohammed  was  seen, 
His  Arab's  mane  sweeping  his  mantle  of  green, 
And  the  watchwords  engraved  on  his  drawn  scimctar 
Were  "Allah,  il  Allah!"  each  letter  a  star. 
Gustavus-Adolphus  of  Sweden  was  there, 
As  at  Liitzen  he  rode  with  his  battle-blade  bare. 
And,  like  their  own  turbulent  torrents  let  loose 
By  a  storm  in  the  Highlands,  sped  Wallace  and  Bruce. 
Sobieski,  the  Pole,  gave  his  charger  the  rein, 
Every  stroke  of  whose  hoof  broke  a  fetter  in  twain. 
There  was  Olaf  of  Norway,  whose  mandate  and  sword 
The  heathen  struck  down  in  the  name  of  the  Lord. 


66  THE   PHANTOM    LEADERS. 

There  sped  fiery  Tell  with  his  crossbow  and  dart, 
The  barb  glowing  crimson  from  Gessler's  proud  heart. 
And  close  by  his  side,  the  beloved  of  his  peers, 
Bold  Winklereid  rode  with  his  arms  full  of  spears; 
The  same  old  self-sacrifice  lighting  his  eye, 
And  "Make  way  for  Liberty!"  still  was  his  cry. 
There  was  Luther,  no  braver  e'er  rode  to  the  field, 
And  the  word  of  the  Lord  was  his  buckler  and  shield, 
While   the  weapon   he   grasped  was   the   same  he  had 

sped 

In  a  moment  of  anger  at  Lucifer's  head. 
There   was    Cromwell,    that    monarch   who    never   wore 

crown, 

With  his  Bible  and  sword  and  his  puritan  frown 
And  with  him  Charles-Albert,  the  Piedinontcse  star, 
As  he  rode  ere  betrayed  on  the  field  of  Novarre. 
There  with  garments  still  red  from  that  last  fatal  day, 
The  ghost  of  Bozzaris  sped  fierce  for-  the  fray ; 
And  close  by  his  side,  with  an  eye  full  of  fire, 
Rode  Byron,  still  grasping  his  sword  and  his  lyre; 


THE    PHANTOM   LEADERS.  67 

And    the    war-kindling    numbers   which    fell    from   his 

tongue 

Like  the  notes  of  a  wild  battle-clarion  were  flung ! 
And  just  in  advance  galloped  Korner  and  Burns 
Unsheathing  the  war-song  and  falchion  by  turns  ! 
There,  gazing  and  listening,  my  spirit  entranced 
Leaped  for  joy  as  these  poets  for  Freedom  advanced ; 
And    I    felt    the    warm    thought    through    my    bosom 

descend. 
That  the  bard  to  be  true  must  be  Liberty's  friend  ! 

Then  came  a  dim  host  to  iny  vision  unknown, 
Like  those  lights  which  astronomers  number  alone  ; 
But   their  voice   still   made    clear  what  the    eye  could 

not  see, 
Crying,  "Down  with  the  tyrant  wherever  he  be!" 

But  why  swept  these  phantoms?     Whence  rode  they, 

and  where? 
What  occasion  had  summoned  these  allies  of  air? 


68  TEE   PHANTOM    LEADERS. 

I  looked,  and  beheld  the  swift  spread  of  the  blaze 
Which  dazzled  the  stars  with  the  pulse  of  its  rays, 
As  if  through  the  darkness  the  lightning  had  played, 
And  in  midst  of  its  splendour  been  suddenly  stayed  : 
There  I  read  the  great  words  spread  like  fiery  wings 
Where  f(  weighed    and    found  wanting"  confronted  the 

kings ! 

And  this  army  of  spectres,  led  on  by  that  light, 
Like  a  cloud  on  a  hurricane  swept  through  the  night; 
And  this  was  their  cry  coming  down  on  the  gale, 
"  The  modern  Belshazzars  are  weighed  in  the  scale !" 


THE   GREAT    SURVEY. 

A  SONG  OF  FREMONT'S  MEN. 

WITH  glory  firing  every  brain, 
With  courage  in  each  breast, 

We  cross  the  roaring  Rubicon, 
The  boundary  of  the  West. 

Our  path  lies  o'er  the  prairie, 
Where  the  herds  of  bison  hie, — 

Jove's  thunder  rolling  from  their  feet, 
His  lightning  in  each  eye; — 


70  THE    GREAT    SURVEY. 

Where  o'er  these  wide  Olympian  fields 
The  curbless  coursers  speed, — 

Where  Fear,  the  desperate  charioteer, 
Scourges  the  frantic  steed. 

Fear  rules  the  chariot  of  the  wind 

Before  the  march  of  man, 
And  flying,  yields  these  fenceless  fields 

To  the  leader  of  our  clan. 

But  where  yon  frantic  dwellers  tramp 
The  rank  and  tangled  grass, 

We  trace  the  mighty  path  where  soon 
A  swifter  steed  shall  pass  : — 

Ay,  swifter  than  yon  courser 

With  his  wild  mane  streaming  wide, 

Though  he  strained  until  his  nostril  foam 
With  crimson  stains  were  dyed; — 


THE    GREAT    SURVEY.  71 

His  tread  make  louder  thunder 
Than  the  herd  down  yonder  path; 

His  glance  flash  fiercer  lightning 
Than  the  bison's  eye  of  wrath. 

His  mane  from  off  his  iron  neck 

Shall  sweep  the  cloud  in  ire, 
The  foain  from  his  nostrils  flashing  wide 

Be  flecked  with  blood  of  fire. 

Ay,  he  shall  sweep  this  conquered  plain 

Swift  as  a  meteor  star, 
And  the  chariot  which  he  wings  shall  be 

Progression's  mighty  car. 

And  all  along  its  glittering  side 

The  grateful  hand  of  Fame 
Shall  write  in  blazing  capitals 

Our  fearless  leader's  name. 


72  THE   GREAT   SURVEY. 

Lo,  before  us  in  the  distance, 

Like  a  cloud  that  threatens  storm, 

Peak  after  peak  looms  blue  and  bleak 
O'er  the  mountain's  monster  form. 

Soon  o'er  its  rocky  ramparts, 
On  the  eagle's  native  crag, 

The  Napoleon  of  the  Western  Alps 
Shall  plant  his  conquering  flag. 

And  following  in  his  footsteps 
Ere  a  few  short  years  go  by, 

There  shall  cleave  the  nation's  highway, 
There  the  thundering  car  shall  fly. 

It  shall  pierce  the  white  Sierra, 

Pass  the  California  mine, 
Till  it  reach  the  far  Pacific 

In  a  long  continuous  line. 


THE    GREAT    SURVEY.  73 

Of  old  the  Spaniard  crossed  the  height, 

And  strode  into  the  main, 
And  smote  the  ocean  with  his  sword, 

And  claimed  its  realm  for  Spain; 

But  a  greater  shall  descend,  and  hold 

The  sea  with  weightier  sway, 
For  the  mighty  pier  of  his  giant  road 

Shall  stride  into  the  bay ;  — 

Shall  stride  breast-deep  into  the  sea, — 

There  set  its  foot  of  steel, 
And  hold  the  watery  realm  to  serve 

And  guard  the  commonweal. 

And  even  from  Narraganset 

To  the  farthest  sands  of  gold 
This  bond  shall  clasp  the  continent 

With  firm  and  steadfast  hold. 


THE   GREAT    SURVEY. 

And  he  whose  giant  energy 
Laid  down  its  course  sublime, 

Be  held  through  future  centuries 
The  Leader  of  his  time. 


A  BIETHDAY  THOUGHT    IN   ITALY. 

INSCRIBED   TO    MISS   S.   R.   B. 

As  once  the  trembling  Lombard  saw 
The  swift  barbarians'  line  of  spears 

Wind  down  the  Alps,  thus  here  in  awe 
I  watch  the  approaching  line  of  years. 

They  come,  the  Goth  and  vandal  bands, 
With  savage  tread  and  look  uncouth; 

With  spear  and  mace  and  murderous  brands, 
They  file  towards  the  plains  of  youth. 

75 


76  A   BIRTHDAY    THOUGHT    IN    ITALY. 

Down  into  life's  Etrurian  vales, 

O'er  green  campagnas  broad  and  fair, 

They  sweep  like  bitter  Nor' land  gales, 
And  fright  the  calm  Italian  air. 

Their  barbarous  feet  know  no  restraint; 

They  vent  their  rage  before  our  eyes : 
The  shrines  that  held  our  dearest  saint 

A  ruined  heap  before  us  lies. 

The  temples  by  our  young  hearts  reared, 
Their  ruffian  malice  batters  down; 

Ambition's  altars,  unrevered, 

With  domes  of  Hope,  lie  overthrown. 

And  Friendship's  wayside  shrines  and  towers 
Too  oft  are  shattered  as  they  pass : 

Oft  Love,  a  statue  wreathed  with  flowers, 
Lies  at  their  feet  a  crumbled  mass. 


A   BIRTHDAY   THOUGHT   IN    ITALY.  77 

But  like  these  pure  Etruscan  skies, 

Unsullied  by  the  Goth's  control, 
One  fane  the  vandal  Time  defies, — 

The  dome  of  sunshine  in  the  soul ! 

And  thou,  fair  maid,  so  young  and  blest ! 

When  impious  years  shall  touch  thy  brow, 
Still  hold  this  sunshine  in  thy  breast, 

And  be  as  beautiful  as  now. 

Bagna  di  Lucca,  August  16,  1855. 


THE   STAYED   CURSE. 


WITH  face  half  hidden  in  ungathered  hair, 
Which  fell  like  sunshine  o'er  her  shoulders  bare, 
She  leaned  her  cheek  against  her  chamber  wall, 
As  if  to  note  when  some  far  voice  should  call. 
Her  weary  soul  stood  at  its  prison  bars, 
Fainting  to  hear  a  summons  from  the  stars : 
For  life  was  now  a  midnight  wilderness, 
Wherein  none  whispered  peace  to  her  distress, 
Save  One,  whose  voice,  of  love  and  pity  blended, 
Mid  her  loud  grief  was  not  yet  comprehended. 
78 


THE    STAYED    CURSE.  79 

She  heard  alone  the  vulture  sailing  by, 
Led  by  the  foulest  birds  of  calumny; 
Felt  the  cold  serpents  crawl  against  her  feet, 
And  saw  the  gaunt  wolves  steal  to  her  retreat. 
The  wide  world  scowled  and  reddened  at  her  shame, 
Scorching  her  soul  with  horror;   and  her  name 
Was  struck,  as  with  the  violent  hand  of  rage, 
With  one  huge  blot  from  off  the  social  page. 
What  wonder  that  the  soul  thus  rudely  wrung 
Should  shape  such  words  as  half  appalled  the  tongue  ! 
Words  like  fierce  arrows  for  the  faithless  breast 
Where  love  had  dreamed  with  too  confiding  rest; 
Shafts  which,  once  sped  at  random  from  the  lips, 
Some  friendly  fiend  must  guide  to  their  eclipse 
In  the  dark  heart,  where,  on  his  starless  throne, 
Deception  sat,  and,  smiling,  reigned  alone ! 

Thus  had  she  nursed  her  grief  for  many  days, 

And  thus  the  curse  was  struggling  from  her  breast, 


80  THE    STAYED    CURSE. 

When,  as  the  midnight's  solemn  sentry  bell 
Struck  vaguely  through  her  woe-engendered  haze, 
Announcing,  as  it  were,  the  mournful  guest, 

She  heard  the  sudden  close  of  wings  which  fell, 
Together  with  the  rustling  sound  of  sighs; 
And  presently,  uplifting  her  blank  eyes, 
Beheld  a  dull  and  ashen  form  of  woe 

Stand  looking  its  great  melancholy  there, 

As  if  long  years  of  under-world  despair 
Had  fanned  him  with  the  hottest  airs  that  blow 
Athwart  the  fierce  Sahara  fields  below ! 
The  wings  were  leaden-hued  and  ruffled  all, 
As  if  long  beaten  'gainst  some  stormy  wall, 
Or  blown  contrary  by  belligerent  gusts, 
Then  trailed  for  ages  through  the  cinder  dusts 
On  plains  adjacent,  where  the  Stygian  pours, 
Hissing  forever  on  volcanic  shores ! 
She  looked,  and  on  her  lips  the  curse  was  stayed ! 
Thrice  all  the  vengeance  which  her  soul  had  planned 


THE    STAYED    CURSE.  81 

Burned  on  the  forehead  of  the  fallen  shade! 

Her  purpose  dropt — as  from  the  archer's  hand 
Might  fall  the  arrow  if  he  saw  the  foe 
Struck  by  the  lightning's  swift  and  surer  blow! 
The  curse  was  stayed — she  looked  to  heaven  and  sighed, 
"Forgive!  forgive!"  and  in  her  prayer  she  died! 


ALICIA. 


THREE  days  have  passed,  three  dreamy  days  and  nights, 

And  in  my  heart  one  thought  asserts  its  will, 
That,  like  a  wayward  child  no  frown  deters  or  frights, 
Puts  this  one  question,  "Do  you  cherish  still 

In  memory  that  sweet  picture  which  we  saw, 
So  full  of  mellow  shades  and  golden  lights, 

Where  the  wild-hearted  poet  through  his  awe 
Burst  into  song,  forgetful  of  all  law, 
Though  lowly  born,  and  boldly  soared  above, 

Until  a  princess  heard  and  trembled  at  his  love?" 
82 


ALICIA.  83 

Ah,  yes,  that  glowing  picture  stays  with  you; 

For  I  remember  as  you  gazed  you  sighed, 
Because  of  the  great  space  between  the  two, 

Till  melting  pity  left  you  dewy-eyed! 
Had  you  been  that  fair  princess,  you  had  said, 

"This  poet  mounted  on  his  lyric  throne, 
And  with  the  crown  of  laurel   on   his  head, 

Hath  state  majestic  equal  to  my  own !" 
And  with  a  countenance  benign  and  sweet, 

You  would  have  raised  him  to  your  throne  of  gold ! 

If  such  thy  generous  nature — then,  behold, 
There  sits  a  poet  singing  at  your  feet ! 


ELLA. 


FAIR  maid,  when  you  and  such  as  you,- 
And  such  methinks  are  far  and  few, — 
Come,  like  the  first  star,  to  relieve 
The  shadows  of  the  deepening  eve, 
An  influence  soft  as  summer  dew 
Steals  down  the  twilight  of  my  soul, 
And,  with  a  secret,  sweet  control, 
Revives  the  drooping  flowers  of  hope, 
Until  again  Life's  darkened  slope 
Is  veiled  with  perfume  and  delight, 

As  in  that  soft  auroral  hour, 
84 


ELLA.  85 

Before  the  frost  had  left  its  blight 

On  leaf  or  bud  or  flower, — 
Before  the  autumnal  gusts  of  Pain 
Had  breathed  athwart  my  summer  plain. 

Fair  be  thy  pathway,  gentle  star, 
Along  Life's  shadowy  fields  afar: 
Long  may  thy  smile  as  now  renew 
Full  many  a  flower  with  light  and  dew; — 
And  when  beyond  the  realms  of  night 
Thou  gain'st  the  far  celestial  bourne, 
Then  be  it  said  she  passed  from  sight 

i  O 

A  deathless  star  o'erveiled  with  light 
Within  the  glory  of  the  morn. 


TWENTY-ONE. 

SOME   BIRTHDAY   LINES   TO  J.  R.  T. 

FAR  within  the  orient  azure, 
In  the  purple  and  the  dew, 

Lies  the  flowery  land  of  pleasure 
Which  your  early  childhood  knew. 

In  its  dim  and  blue  existence 
There  it  lies,  a  dewy  space, 

In  the  bright  forbidden  distance 
Memory  only  can  retrace. 

86 


TWENTY-ONE. 

After  this  the  fancy  wanders 

Over  varied  field  and  hill, 
Where  the  swelling  stream  meanders 

And  forgets  it  was  a  rill. 

Many  a  flower  with  odours  baneful 

Blooms  enticingly  thereby, 
To  whose  influence,  subtle,  painful, 

Later  years  shall  testify. 

In  Youth's  lovely,  dangerous  valley, 

E'en  the  best  directed  feet 
Oft  may  turn  to  stray  and  dally 

Mid  the  bowers  that  chill  and  cheat. 

But  anon  the  flowers  grow  scanter 
And  to  rougher  pastures  yield, 

Where  the  ploughman  and  the  planter 
Must  prepare  the  harvest-field. 


TWENTY-ONE. 

On  that  boundary  you  are  standing, 
'Twixt  the  blossoms  and  the  clods, 

To  begin  on  this  stern  landing 

The  great  strife  'gainst  fearful  odds. 

YvThere  you  strolled  the  sunny  meadows, 
You  must  brave  the  rocks  and  storms; 

Where  you  took  alarm  at  shadows, 
You  must  combat  solid  forms. 

Hills  of  snow  and  valleys  torrid 
Lie  beyond  the  boundary  vast, 

Where  fond  Life  with  anxious  forehead 
Reads  the  future  from  the  past. 

Huge  and  rough  as  thunder-smitten, 
Rise  the  barriers  of  the  gate, 

With  one  sentence  overwritten, — 
Simple  letters  full  of  fate. 


TWENTY-ONE. 

On  the  arch  through  which  you're  speeding 
There  those  two  forbidding  words 

Still  shall  flame,  as  over  Eden 
Blazed  the  red  exiling  swords. 

A  lost  realm  recovered  never — 

With  receding  speed  increased, 
Barred  and  branded  there  forever 

It  shall  glimmer  in  the  east. 

Youth  is  gone — a  vanished  glory — 
And,  with  stern  and  earnest  view, 

Manhood  needs  take  up  the  story, 
And  with  valour  bear  it  through. 

All  the  world  lies  wide  before  you, 

,   Where  to  choose  the  wrong  or  right; 

And  no  future  shall  restore  you 

What  you  seize  not  now  with  might. 


90  TWENTY-ONE. 

Let  each  act  be  the  sure  token 
Of  the  nobler  life  ahead : — 

Let  each  thought  in  truth  be  spoken, 
Though  the  utterance  strike  you  dead. 

Spurn  the  small  enticing  by-way 
Where  Temptation  sits  apart : 

Boldly  tread  the  open  highway 
Leading  to  the  golden  mart. 

Though  the  world  smile  on  you  blandly, 
Let  your  friends  be  choice  and  few  : 

Choose  your  course,  pursue  it  grandly, 
And  achieve  what  you  pursue ! 


BEATRICE. 

THOUGH  others  know  thee  by  a  fonder  name, 

I,  in  my  heart,  have  christened  thee  anew; 

And  though  thy  beauty,  in  its  native  hue, 
(Shedding  the  radiance  of  whence  it  came,) 
May  not  bequeath  to  language  its  high  claim, — 

Thy  smiling  presence,  like  an  angel's  wing, 
Fans  all  my  soul  of  poesy  to  flame, — 

Till,  even  in  remembering,  I  must  sing. 
Such  led  the  grand  old  Tuscan's  longing  eyes 
Through  all  the  crystal  rounds  of  Paradise; 

And,  in  my  spirit's  farthest  journeying, 
Thy  smile  of  courage  leads  me  up  the  skies, 
Through  realms  of  song,  of  beauty,  and  of  bliss,- 

And  therefore  have  T  named  thee  Beatrice  ! 

91 


HERO   AND   LEANDEE. 

IN    MARBLE    BY    STEINHAUSER. 

LONG  had  they  dwelt  within  one  breathless  cell, 
Two  souls,  by  some  mad  Sycorax  confined; 

But,  oh  !  the  unmeant  mercy  of  that  spell 

Which  turned  those  arms  to  marble,  while  entwine! 

In  all  the  passionate  wo  of  tenderness, 

And  to  the  unknown  depths  of  earth  consigned, — 

These  radiant  forms  of  Beauty's  rare  excess, 

This  monument  of  Love's  own  loveliness! 

Unchronicled,  the  centuries  rolled  on, 

And  groves  grew  ancient  on  the  prison-hill; 
02 


HERO   AND   LEANDEE.  93 

And  men  forgot  their  parent  tongues  anon, 

And  spoke  a  different  language,  as  a  rill 
Wearing  another  channel  from  its  source, 
Makes  a  new  song  accordant  with  its  course. 
But  suddenly  the  unexpectant  sun 

Beheld  the  swarthy  labourers  employ 
Upon  that  hill  their  rude  exhuming  art, 
Like  shadowy  hopes  at  some  dull,  ancient  'heart, 

To  free  the  spirit  of  long  buried  joy. 
And  now  they  grappled  with  the  stubborn  rocks, 

Breaking  the  antique  seals  which  time  had  set 
Upon  the  earth's  deep  treasury,  that  locks 

Within  its  inmost  wards  such  marts  as  yet 
The  busy  masons  of  the  poet's  brain 

Have  builded  not.     Anon  the  toiling  ox 
Dragged  the  white  quarry  to  the  peopled  plain, 

And  Beauty's  soul  lay  sepulchred  unknown  ! 
The  crowd  discerned  it  not,  till  there  came  one 
Who  heard  the  passionate  breathings  in  the  stone, 


94  HERO   AND   LEANDER. 

The  wordless  music  of  Love's  overflow; 
Who  heard  and  pitied,  and,  like  Prospero, 

Released  the  spirits  from  their  living  grave; 
And  when  the  breathless  world  beheld  them — lo ! 
The  soul  of  purity,  around,  above, 
Hung  in  the  tremulous  air  like  heaven's  own  dove; 

And  Fame  pronounced  the  name  of  him  who  gave 
A  marble  immortality  to  Love ! 


MY  FRIEND.* 

MY  friend  was  a  poet;  by  day  and  by  night 

He  read  me  the  songs  which  I  heard  with  delight, — 

His  melodious  dreams,  so  ethereal  and  fine ! — 

Such  temples  of  air  !  filled  with  music  and  wine — 

The  wine  of  those  flowers  by  Proserpine  planted 

In  the  world  of  the  classics — those  gardens  enchanted  ! — 

That  I  deemed  him  a  spirit, — a  God, — or  so  near  it, 

That  I  fancied  no  trail  of  the  serpent  of  old 

Could  be  found  on  a  soul  of  such  exquisite  mould. 

But,  alas  !  in  an  hour  of  revel  I  took 

The  harp  long  concealed  in  the  shade  of  a  nook, 

*  The  subject  of  this  poem  is  entirely  imaginary. 

95 


96  MY   FRIEND. 

And  recklessly  struck  a  wild  tune  from  its  strings, 
With  the  pride  of  a  bird  when  it  first  feels  its  wings, 
Hoping  only  to  win  from  the  critical  set 
The  crumbs  of  applause  which  a  tyro  may  get : 
But  the  good-natured  audience,  more  generous  than  just, 
Filled  the  air  with  approval,  that  swelled  to  a  gust. 
I  shrunk  with  affright  at  this  undeserved  fame, 
And  trembled  and  blushed  to  the  forehead  with  shame; 
And  to  shelter  me  then  from  the  storm  coming  down, 
I  looked  for  my  friend  with  the  poet's  great  crown. 
But  where  was  he  then  ? — in  the  midst  of  the  throng, 
Cursing  inward  the  praise,  outward  damning  the  song ! 
And  from  that  day  henceforth  in  grandiloquous  state 
He  proudly  strode  past  me,  his  eyes  full  of  hate ! 

Though  we  meet   not   as  friends,   but  stand   strangely 

apart, — 

When  he  passes  a  smile  glows  concealed  in  my  heart; 
And  I  think,  though  his  eye  meets  me  colder  than  frost, 
'Tis  only  the  shell  of  a  friend  I  have  lost : 


MY   FRIEND.  97 

For  I  know  there's  a  soul  in  that  envious  clay 
To  smile  on  me  still  could  it  have  its  own  way; 
For  the  soul  which  gives  beauty  an  utterance  so  fine, 
Hath  seasons  at  least  of  impulses  divine. 
And  many  a  time  how  I  laugh  to  myself 
As  I  take  down  my  friend  from  my  library  shelf, 
Encased  in  the  choicest  morocco  and  gold, 
To  think  all  that's  best  of  him  lies  in  my  hold ! 
Yes,  there  in  my  grasp  his  warm  heart  lies  as  calm 
As  of  old  his  own  hand  ever  lay  in  my  palm: 
There  our  souls  in  communion  still  mingle  and  blend, 
So  I  smile  at  the  foe  whose  best  part  is  my  friend ! 


WINTER. 


Lo,  Winter  comes,  and  all  his  heralds  blow 

Their  gusty  trumpets,  and  his  tents  of  snow 

Usurp  the  fields  from  whence  sad  Autumn  flies, — 

Autumn,  that  finds  a  southern  clime  or  dies. 

The  streams  are  dumb  with  wo, — the  forest  grieves, 

Wailing  the  loss  of  all  its  summer  leaves: 

As  some  fond  Rachel  on  her  childless  breast 

Clasps  her  thin  hands  where  once  her  young  were  prest; 

Then  flings  her  empty  arms  into  the  air, 

And  swells  the  gale  with  her  convulsed  despair! 


THE   BLIGHTED   FLOWER. 


WHY,  gentle  lady,  why  complain 
At  Scandal's  ever  flying  breath  ? 

'Gainst  Virtue's  cheek  it  blows  in  vain, 
And  thereon  breathes  itself  to  death. 

The  flower  beneath  the  passing  rain, 
Untouched  of  canker  or  of  blight, 
Bows  patiently,  to  rise  again 

With  sweeter  breath  and  fresher  light. 

90 


100  THE   BLIGHTED    FLOWER. 

But  if  the  worm  be  hid  beneath, 

Or  haply  if  the  hot  simoom, 
Like  some  unlawful  lover's  breath, 

Hath  wooed  that  blossom  to  its  doom,— 

Then,  wo  is  me,  how  poor  and  frail 
Is  Beauty  in  her  fairest  form! 

Her  brightness  cannot  stay  the  gale, 
Her  perfume  cannot  charm  the  storm. 

But  when  the  searching  wind  comes  by, 
And  shakes  each  blossom  by  the  stalk, 

The  tainted  leaves  asunder  fly, 

To  wither  down  the  garden  walk; — 

And  ere  one  heated  noon  has  sped, 

They  crisp  and  curl  and  pass  from  sight; 

Or  crumble  'neath  some  careless  tread 
As  if  they  never  had  been  bright. 


THE    DEATH    OF   THE   VETERAN. 


INSCRIBED    TO    MAJOR    ANDERSON    OF    THE    U.    S.    ARMY. 

SINCE  last  we  ruefc,  a  throng  has  joined 

The  army  of  the  years, 
Trampling  to  dust  our  summer  flowers, 

Like  conquering  cavaliers. 
Since  last  we  met ! — In  those  few  words 

There  is  a  mournful  beat, 
Like  throbbing  of  a  muffled  drum, 

Or  tread  of  funeral  feet. 
Since  then,  in  war's  high  festival, 

You've  waved  the  clashing  sword, — 
While  I  have  been  a  saddened  guest 

At  Life's  promiscuous  board. 
Since  then,  the  young  with  mimic  arms 

Have  grown  to  armed  men; 
And  they  may  wear  the  veteran's  hair 

Before  we  meet  again:  — 
Or  though,  ere  that,  our  mighty  Chief 

Should  grant  our  last  release, 
And  Death  conduct  us  to  the  camp 

The  far  white  camp  of  Peace, — 


-      INSCRIPTION. 

Yet  here,  in  memory  of  those  days, 
Still  cherished,   though,  long  spent, 

I  wake  the  martial  harp  before 
The  doorway  of  your  tent. 


THE   DEATH  OF   THE  VETERAN. 

AN   INCIDENT   DURING   THE   MEXICAN   WAR. 

FROM  hill  to  hill  the  agood  news"  ran 

As  swift  as  signal  fires; 
From  shore  to  sea,  from  gulf  to  land, 

And  flashed  along  the  wires: 

And  presently  from  wharf  to  wharf 

The  cannons  made  reply, 
And  in  the  city's  crowded  streets 

Was  heard  the  newsman's  cry. 

103 


104        THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VETERAN. 

Bright  grew  the  matron's  face  when  I 

The  victory  began; 
Pale  waxed  the  young  wife's  cheek  when  she 

Heard  who  had  led  the  van; 

And  struggling  with  the  mists  of  age 
Which  veiled  his  eye  and  ear, 

The  grandsire  raised  his  palsied  hand 
And  feebly  strove  to  hear. 

And  when  I  read  the  story,  how 

Amid  the  flying  balls 
The  brave  lieutenant  bore  the  flag 

And  scaled  the  shattered  walls; 

The  matron  and  the  young  wife  stood 

Too  terrified  for  tears, 
While  flamed  the  old  man's  cheek  with  red 

It  had  not  known  for  years. 


THE  DEATH  OP  THE  VETERAN.         105 

But  when  I  read,  that  as  the  flag 

In  triumph  o'er  him  flew, 
How  twenty  bullets  hewed  his  breast 

And  cleaved  it  through  and  through, — 

The  mother  heaved  a  short,  deep  groan, 

And  sunk  into  her  chair; 
The  wife  fell  on  the  matron's  breast, 

And  swooned  in  her  despair. 

And  like  a  wounded,  dying  stag, 

Lodged  in  some  old  retreat, 
That  hears  the  still  approaching  hounds 

And  staggers  to  his  feet, — 

The  Veteran  struggled  from  his  chair 

And  raised  himself  upright, — 
His  eye  a  moment  kindled  with 

Its  long  forgotten  light; — 


106        THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VETERAN. 

So  firm  lie  strode  across  the  room, 

So  martial  was  his  air, 
You  scarce  had  guessed  that  ninety  years 

Had  whitened  through  his  hair:— 

Then  from  the  wainscot  took  his  sword 
Where  it  had  hung  so  long, 

Memorial  of  many  a  field, 

The  weak  against  the  strong, — 

Of  fields  where  Justice  armed  the  few 

With  consecrated  brands, 
And  lodged  a  nation's  destiny 

In  their  devoted  hands : — 

And,  gazing  on  the  blade,  he  said, 
"Thou  art  as  keen  and  bright 

As  when  in  those  old  trying  times 
We  battled  for  the  right; 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VETERAN.         107 

As  when  we  wintered  in  the  snow 

Within  the  frozen  gorge, 
And  from  our  starving  ranks  still  hurled 

Defiance  at  King  George : — 

As  when  beside  the  Brandywine 
We  fought  the  whole  day  through, 

Till  fields  had  changed  their  mantle 
And  the  river  changed  its  hue : — 

As  when  mid  grinding  gulfs  of  ice, 

Upon  a  Christmas  night, 
We  crossed  the  roaring  Delaware 

And  put  the  foe  to  flight! 

It  may  be  this  old  arm  of  mine 

Is  not  as  steady  now 
As  when  it  drew  against  Burgoyne, 

Or  cleaved  the  ranks  of  Howe; 


108        THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VETERAN. 

The  hand  may  tremble  on  the  hilt, 

The  heart  within  is  strong; 
And  God  who  strengthened  once  the  right 

Will  not  uphold  the  wrong. 

What !  have  they  ta'en  the  last  support 
That  propped  my  honoured  wall  ? 

Shall  the  name  become  tradition 
And  the  stately  roof-tree  fall? 

Was't  not  enough  that  he  who,  through 
The  woods  and  tangled  brakes, 

Spread  terror  o'er  the  savage,  from 
The  Gulf  unto  the  lakes ; 

And  who  beside  the  bloody  Thames 
Left  death  where'er  he  sped, 

Till  the  fate  which  he  was  hurling  round 
Recoiled  upon  his  head? 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VETERAN.         109 

Was't  not  enough  ?     Speak  thou,  my  friend : 

Old  comrade,  thou  wert  there, 
Who  in  the  days  aforetime  drove 

The  Lion  to  his  lair; 

Twice  drove  him  from  our  shore,  and  chased 

The  red  wolf  to  his  den ! 
Wast't  not  enough,  but  must  I  hear 

The  death-note  sound  again? 

And  has  our  banner  waved  abroad, 

The  martial  trumpet  pealed, 
And  foemen  bristled  on  the  plain, 

And  we  not  in  the  field? 

Old  sword,  in  this  our  winter, 

Shall  they  call  to  us  in  vain, 
Who  reaped  the  crimson  harvest 

With  a  Washington  and  Wayne? 


110        THE  DEATH  OF  THE  VETERAN. 

No !  come,  my  trusty  champion, 
Till  the  field  be  cleared  and  won, 

And  the  foe  be  left  in  prostrate  ranks 
To  bleach  beneath  the  sun ! 

Ho!  now  is't  blood  which  stains  you, 
Or  the  shameful  blush  of  rust? 

Is  it  age  which  dims  my  vision, 
Or  the  flying  smoke  and  dust? 

Is't  the  beating  of  my  heart  I  hear, 
Or  calling  drum  at  hand? 

Or  grows  my  steps  unsteady, 
Or  does  battle  shake  the  land? 

The  drums  grow  loud  and  louder, 
With  the  bugle's  dreadful  note: 

The  smoke-wreaths  thicken  round  me, 
And  the  dust  is  in  my  throat! 


THE   DEATH    OF    THE    VETERAN.  Ill 

Hark,  hark  !     I  hear  the  order,  and 

It  bids  me  mount  the  wall; 
I  know  the  General's  voice! — and  I 

Obey  him  though  I  fall! 

Yes,  I  will  plant  my  country's  flag 

Upon  the  topmost  stone, 
For  when  her  fate  demands  it, 

What  should  I  care  for  my  own  ? 

Now  how  the  loud  walls  totter, — 
Thicker, — darker  grows  the  smoke, — 

And  all  the  air  is  turned  to  dust, — 
I  stumble,  and  I  choke ! 

One  solid  thrust  to  plant  the  staff, — 

There! — let  the  eagle  soar!" 
He  cried,  and  reeling,  clasped  his  breast, — 

He  fell — and  breathed  no  more ! 


EVENING   IN   WINTER. 


ROBED  like  an  abbess 

The  snowy  earth  lies, 
While  the  red  sundown 

Fades  out  of  the  skies. 
Up  walks  the  evening 

Veiled  like  a  nun, 
Telling  her  starry  beads 

One  by  one. 

Where  like  the  billows 

The  shadowy  hills  lie, 
112 


EVENING   IN    WINTER. 

Like  a  mast  the  great  pine  swings 
Against  the  bright  sky. 

Down  in  the  valley 

The  distant  lights  quiver, 
Gilding  the  hard-frozen 
Face  of  the  river. 

When  o'er  the  hilltops 

The  moon  pours  her  ray, 
Like  shadows  the  skaters 

Skirr  wildly  away; 
Whirling  and  gliding, 

Like  summer-clouds  fleet, 
They  flash  the  white  lightning 

From  glittering  feet. 

The  icicles  hang 

On  the  front  of  the  falls, 
Like  mute  horns  of  silver 

On  shadowy  walls; 

8 


114  EVENING   IN    WINTER. 

Horns  that  the  wild  huntsman 
Spring  shall  awake, 

Down  flinging  the  loud  blast 
Toward  river  and  lake! 


A   PLEA  FOR  THE   HOMELESS. 


A  CRY  goes  up  amidst  a  prosperous  nation, 
And  Hunger  begs  within  a  plenteous  land ! 

Have  ye  not  heard  the  voice  of  Desolation? 

Have  ye  not  seen  the  stretched  and  famished  hand? 

Have  ye  not  felt  the  solemn  obligation 

To  rise,  and  straightway  answer  the  demand? 

0  happy  mothers,  in  your  homes  protected, 
Whose  little  ones  may  never  ask  for  alms, 

That  voice  is  Childhood's !  starving  and  neglected, 
Pale  Infancy  implores  with  empty  palms, — 

The  sad  soul  sitting  in  its  eyes  dejected, 

No  voice  elates,  no  smile  of  pity  calms. 

115 


116  A   PLEA   FOR   THE    HOMELESS. 

Let  thpse  dear  looks,  so  full  of  April  splendour, 
Those  dimpled  hands  you  clasp  within  your  own, 

That  voice  you  love  so,  plead  with  accents  tender, 
For  those  who  weep  unguarded  and  alone, 

For  those  dull  eyes,  those  hands  so  weak  and  slender, 
Those  pallid  lips,  whose  mirth  is  but  a  moan ! 

Sweet  plants  there  are  which  bloom  in  sultry  places, 
By  rude  feet  trampled  in  their  early  hour, 

Which,  when  transplanted,  are  so  full  of  graces, 
They  lend  a  charm  to  Flora's  fairest  bower; 

0  ye  who  pass,  look  down  into  their  faces, 
Displace  the  dust,  and  recognise  the  flower! 

Lo,  the  example  for  our  guidance  given, — 
In  sacred  light  our  duty  stands  revealed ! 

For  ONE  there  was,  who,  in  His  great  love,  even 
Noted  the  smallest  lilies  of  the  field, — 

And  blessing  children,  said,  "  Of  such  is  heaven !" 
His  "  suffer  them  to  come,"  stands  unrepealed ! 


A    PLEA    FOR   THE    HOMELESS.  117 

0  ye  whose  hearts,  amid  the  worldly  noises, 
No  cares  can  harden,  and  no  self  benumb, 

Whose  ears  are  open  to  these  orphan  voices, 
Whose  answering  soul  no  avarice  makes  dumb, 

The  great  RECORDER  o'er  your  names  rejoices, 
For  ye  have  truly  suffered  them  to  come ! 


THE  CELESTIAL  ARMY. 


I  STOOD  by  the  open  casement 
And  looked  upon  the  night, 

And  saw  the  westward-going  stars 
Pass  slowly  out  of  sight. 

Slowly  the  bright  procession 
Went  down  the  gleaming  arch, 

And  my  soul  discerned  the  music 
Of  their  long  triumphal  march; 
118 


THE   CELESTIAL  ARMY.  119 

Till  the  great  celestial  army, 

Stretching  far  beyond  the  poles, 
Became  the  eternal  symbol 

Of  the  mighty  march  of  souls. 

Onward,  forever  onward, 

Red  Mars  led  down  his  clan; 
And  the  Moon,  like  a  mailed  maiden, 

Was  riding  in  the  van. 

And  some  were  bright  in  beauty, 

And  some  were  faint  and  small, 
But  these  might  be  in  their  great  height 

The  noblest  of  them  all. 

Downward,  forever  downward, 

Behind  Earth's  dusky  shore 
They  passed  into  the  unknown  night, 

They  passed,  and  were  no  more. 


120  THE    CELESTIAL    ARMY. 

No  more  !     Oh,  say  not  so  ! 

And  downward  is  not  just; 
For  the  sight  is  weak  and  the  sense  is  dim 

That  looks  through  heated  dust. 

The  stars  and  the  mailed  moon, 
Though  they  seem  to  fall  and  die, 

Still  sweep  with  their  embattled  lines 
An  endless  reach  of  sky. 

And  though  the  hills  of  Death 

May  hide  the  bright  array, 
The  marshalled  brotherhood  of  souls 

Still  keeps  its  upward  way. 

Upward,  forever  upward, 

I  see  their  march  sublime, 
And  hear  the  glorious  music 

Of  the  conquerors  of  Time. 


THE   CELESTIAL   ARMY.  121 

And  long  let  me  remember, 

That  the  palest,  fainting  one 
May  to  diviner  vision  be 

A  bright  and  blazing  sun. 


irs  fr0m 


TO 


arms 


To  you,  who,  in  the  broad  commercial  plain, 
Sittest  where  calm  Passaic  seeks  the  main, 
I  bring  these  mountain  airs,  —  and  wake  once  more 
The  minstrel  harp  you  kindly  heard  of  yore  : 
Beside  your  fire  the  heavenward  hill  would  rear, 
And  give  the  pleasures  of  the  mountaineer; 
Would  wake  the  music  of  the  marvellous  pass, 
And  loose  the  avalanche's  monster  mass  ; 
Recall,  had  I  such  mastery  o'er  the  strings, 
From  St.  Bernard  the  tempest's  wildest  wings  ! 
Assured  the  dreariest  scene  would  soon  depart 
Before  your  glowing  hearth  and  genial  heart! 


THE   LISTENERS. 


UNDER  the  vernal  tents  of  shadowy  trees, — 
A  druid  depth  of  oaken  solitude, 
The  home  of  wild  flowers  and  the  haunt  of  bees, 
The  native  vale  of  many  a  minstrel  brood, — 
There  ran  a  stream  in  its  bewildering  mood 
Of  song  and  silence  and  low  whispering  trance; 
And  streamlike  paths  went  winding  through  the  wood 
From  rock  to  glen,  the  temples  of  Komance, 
And   there   were   lawns   where   Mirth   might   lead   hei 
wreathed  dance. 

127 


128  AIRS   FROM   ALPLAND. 

Upon  a  knoll  o'ergrown  with  mosses  sweet, 
While  dropt  the  sun  adown  the  afternoon, 
A  group  of  maidens  made  their  merry  seat, — 
June  all  around  and  in  their  hearts  was  June; 
And  on  their  flowery  lips  the  mellow  tune 
Of  early  summer;   and  with  fingers  fair 
Shaking  the  winged  spoilers  in  their  swoon 
From  honey-bells  of  blossoms  bright  and  rare, 
They  wove   their   woodland  wreaths   and   decked   each 
other's  hair. 

But  when  they  saw  me  pass  between  the  trees, 
Slow  making  toward  the  streamlet's  yellow  sands, 
"Come  hither,  thou  new-comer  from  the  seas, 
And  sing  to  us  fresh  songs  of  foreign  lands !" 
They  cried,  and  placed  a  harp  into  my  hands : 
And  straightway  I  went  stumbling  o'er  the  strings, 
As  best  I  could,  to  answer  their  demands, — 
Like  some  poor  bird  that  with  his  trembling  wings 
Beats  at  the  caging  wires,  and  to  his  mistress  sings. 


THE  FAIR  PILGRIM.  129 


THE  FATE  PILGRIM. 


"  Upon  her  little  palfrey  white 
Ye  maiden  sitteth  eke  upright,— 
Her  hair  is  black  as  ye  midnight, 

Her  eyes  also. 

Her  cheeks  have  snary  dimples  in, 
And  Cupid's  thumb  hath  touched  her  chin, 
And  silken  soft  her  lily  skiu,— 
Her  lips  like  crimson  rose-leaves  bin 
About  her  teeth  of  snow." 


TIME  was  when,  with  the  unrestraint 
Of  an  enamoured  soul  and  hand,  _ 

In  lieu  of  these  cold  words,  that  faint 
And  waver  like  a  willow  wand 

Before  the  vision  I  would  paint,— 
I  would  have  seized  the  ready  brush, 

And,  with  the  limner's  clearer  art, 


130  AIES    FROM    ALPLAND. 

Poured  out  the  softer  hues  that  flush 
And  flow  within  the  painter's  heart ; 

Have  shown  you  where  she  passed  or  stood, 
Between  the  Alpine  light  and  shade; 

Her  stately  form,  her  air  subdued, 

Her  dark  eye  mellowing  to  the  mood 
That  round  her  inmost  spirit  played. 

I  would  have  wrought  the  daylight  through 
To  give  what  yet  before  me  beams, 

And  ceased  at  eve  but  to  renew 
The  impassioned  labour  in  my  dreams. 

But  this  is  past:   life  takes  and  gives, 
And  o'er  the  dust  of  hopes  long  gone 

The  vision  brightens  as  it  lives, 
And  mocks  the  hand  that  would  have  drawn. 

Along  those  windings  high  and  vast, 

Through  frequent  sun  and  shade  she  stole, 

And  all  the  Alpine  splendour  passed 
Into  the  chambers  of  her  soul ; 


THE    FAIR   PILGRIM.  131 

For  she  was  of  that  better  clay 

"Which  treads  not  oft  this  earthly  stage: 
Such  charmed  spirits  lose  their  way 

But  once  or  twice  into  an  age. 
Her  voice  was  one  that  thrills  and  clings 

Forever  in  the  hearer's  bosom, — 
As  when  a  bee  with  flashing  wings 

Cleaves  to  the  centre  of  a  blossom, — 
And  with  the  mule-bells'  measured  chime 
Her  fancies  rung  themselves  to  rhyme. 


132  AIRS    FROM    ALPLAND. 


SONG   ON    ST.  BEENAKD. 

OH,  it  is  a  pleasure  rare 

Ever  to  be  climbing  so, 
Winding  upward  through  the  air, 

Till  the  cloud  is  left  below! 
Upward  and  forever  round 

On  the  stairway  of  the  stream, 
With  the  motion  and  the  sound 

Of  processions  in  a  dream : 
While  the  world  below  all  this 
Lies  a  fathomless  abyss. 

Freedom  singeth  ever  here, 

Where  her  sandals  print  the  snow, 


SONG   ON   ST.  BERNARD.  133 

And  to  her  the  pines  are  dear, 

Freely  rocking  to  and  fro: 
Swinging  oft  like  stately  ships, 

Where  the  billowy  tempests  sport; 
Or,  as  when  the  anchor  slips 

Down  the  dreamy  wave  in  port, 
Standing  silent  as  they  list 
Where  the  zephyrs  furl  the  mist. 

Here  the  well-springs  drop  their  pearls, 

All  to  Freedom's  music  strung; 
And  the  brooks,  like  mountain  girls, 

Sing  the  songs  of  Freedom's  tongue. 
And  the  great  hills,  stern  and  staunch, 

Guard  her  valleys  and  her  lakes, 
And  the  rolling  avalanche 

Blocks  the  path  the  invader  makes, 
While  her  eagle,  like  a  flag, 
Floats  in  triumph  o'er  the  crag! 


184  AIRS    FROM   ALPLAND. 


I  HAVE  looked  on  a  face  that  has  looked  in  my  heart, 
As  deep  as  the  moon  ever  fathoms  a  wave; 

As  uncomprehended  it  came  to  depart, 

While  a  sense  of  its  glory  was  all  that  it  gave. 

Where  she  passed   the  Alp   blossoms   grew  pallid   and 
shrank, 

As  a  taper  in  sunlight  sinks  faint  and  aghast; 
And  now  o'er  her  path  swims  a  terrible  blank, 

A  gulf  in  the  air  where  her  beauty  hath  passed. 


135 

But  her  light  in  my  heart,  which  no  time  can  eclipse, 
Seems  to  brighten  and  smile  in  the  joy  it  confers; 

And  a  voice  which  is  shed  from  aerial  lips 

Breathes  a  music  I  know  which  can  only  be  hers ! 


138  AIRS    FROM   ALFLAND. 


THE   CHAMOIS  HUNTER. 


"  THERE  ! — see  you  not  upon  the  face 

Of  yonder  far  and  dizzy  height 
A  something  with  slow-moving  pace, 

Now  faintly  seen,  now  lost  to  sight? 
And  now  again,  with  downward  spring, 
As  if  supported  by  a  wing, 
It  drops,  then  scarcely  seems  to  crawl 
Along  the  smooth  and  shining  wall. 
Is  it  a  bird?   or  beast  whose  lair 
Is  hid  within  some  cavern  there? 


THE   CHAMOIS    HUNTER.  137 

Or  some  adventurer  who  hath  striven 
To  scale  that  Babel  wall  to  heaven? 
In  sooth,  methinks,  there  never  yawned 
A  passage  to  the  world  beyond 
Of  shorter  access  than  now  lies 
Around  that  climber  in  the  skies." 

Then  spake  the  guide: — 

"  Unless  I  err, 
There  is  but  one  adventurer 

From  Basle  unto  Geneva's  lake, 
From  Neufchatel  to  Spliigen  pass, 

Of  all  who  freely  scale  the  brow 
Of  ice  that  crowns  the  Mer-de-glace, 

Or  climbs  the  slippery  Rosenlau, 

Who  dares  that  dreadful  path  to  take. 
Not  him  who  sprang  from  ridge  to  ridge, 
And  passed  us  on  the  Devil's  Bridge, 
And  told  you  all  that  perilous  tale 
Which  made  your  rosy  cheeks  grow  pale. 


138  AIRS    FROM   ALPLAND. 

Nor  him  who  in  the  Grimsel  sang 
Among  his  fellows  of  the  chase, 
Until  the  laughing  rafters  rang 

And  scared  all  slumber  from  the  place; 
Or,  if  the  weary  traveller  slept, 
Through  all  his  dream  the  chamois  swept 
There  never  yet  was  hunter  born 
So  fierce  of  soul,  so  lithe  of  limb, 
So  fearless  on  the  mountain's  rim, 
As  Herman  of  the  Wetterhorn. 
He  robbed  the  Jungfrau  of  her  fame, 
And  put  the  chamois'  flight  to  shame; 
He  takes  the  wild  crag  by  the  brow, 
As  boatman  might  his  shallop-prow. 
The  avalance  he  loves  to  dare, 
To  shout  amid  the  wild  uproar 

Until  the  thundering  vale  is  full, — 
Then  stands  upon  the  ruins  there, 
Like  some  brave  Spanish  matadore 
With  foot  upon  the  fallen  bull! 


THE    CHAMOIS    HUNTER.  139 

"If  all  goes  well  as  it  should  go, 

Two  toiling  hours  of  steady  pace 
Must  bring  us  to  the  ribs  of  snow 

That  lie  around  the  broken  base 
Of  that  far  height,  and  one  hour  more 
Should  find  us  at  the  convent  door; 
And  there  perchance  will  Herman  be, 

His  shoulder  laden  with  chamois, 
His  heart  a  mountain  well  of  glee, 

His  voice  an  alpine  gust  of  joy/' 

Two  hours  they  toiled  with  steady  pace, 
And  they  had  gained  that  rocky  base. 
But  when  the  winding  line  had  earned 
A  jutting  crag  and  partly  turned, 
A  sharp  and  sudden  rifle-crack 

Broke  through  the  thin  and  icy  air, 

Jarring  the  frozen  silence  there, 

And  rattled  down  the  steep  hill-side; 


140  AIRS    FROM    ALPLAND. 

But  ere  the  snow-cliffs  gave  it  back, 
A  wounded  chamois  in  their  track 

Rolled  bleeding,  and  there  died! 
The  startled  rider  checked  his  rein; 

And  the  pedestrian  stayed  his  pace: 
With  looks  of  wonder  or  of  pain 

Each  stared  into  the  other's  face. 
And  when  the  maid's  first  shock  of  fear 

In  gentle  tremblings  passed  away, 
Her  dark  eye  glistening  with  a  tear, 

She  gazed  where  the  dead  creature  lay. 

The  graceful  head, — the  slender  horns, — 

The  eyes  which  Death  seemed  scarce  to  dull, 
So  wildly  sad, — so  beautiful ! 
The  polished  hoofs, — the  shining  form, — 
The  limbs  that  had  outsped  the  storm, 

Thrilled  her  with  wonder  and  with  wo, 
Until  she  would  have  given  a  part 
Of  the  dear  life-blood  of  her  heart 


THE    CHAMOIS    HUNTER. 

To  wake  once  more  that  gentle  eye 
And  bid  the  eagle's  rival  fly 
Unto  his  native  crags  of  snow. 

Before  their  wonder  all  had  passed 
A  voice  came  down  the  rising  blast, — 
A  voice  that  gayly  soared  and  fell 
Along  the  wild  winds'  wandering  swell; 
A  carol  like  a  flying  bird's — 

Faint  were  the  notes  at  first,  and  then 
The  sounds  ran  eddying  into  words 

That  sang  of  mirth  and  Meyringen. 


142  AIRS    FROM    ALPLAJND. 


SONG  OF   THE  CHAMOIS  HUNTER. 


OH,  brave  may  be  those  bands,  perchance, 

Who  ride  where  tropic  deserts  glow, — 
Who  bring  with  lasso  and  with  lance 

The  tiger  to  their  saddle's  prow : — 
But  I  would  climb  the  snowy  track 

Alone,  as  I  have  ever  been, 
And  with  a  chamois  on  my  back, 

Descend  to  merry  Meyringen. 

N    "•*  -    -       "     *••     V*     *        *•'        J^"     '      '   '4  • ~-      "*  >    "  V   ''         "    r    • 

Oh,  they  may  sing  of  eyes  of  jet, 

That  melt  in  passion's  dreamy  glance, — 


SONG    OP    THE    CHAMOIS    HUNTER.  143 

Of  forms  that  to  the  Castanet 

Sway  through  the  languor  of  the  dance  : — 
But  let  me  clasp  some  blue-eyed  girl, 

Whose  arms  impulsive  clasp  again; 
And  through  a  storm  of  music  whirl 

The  dizzy  waltz  at  Meyringen. 

And  they  may  sing,  as  oft  they  will, 

Of  joy  beneath  the  southern  vine, 
And  in  luxurious  banquets  fill 

Their  goblets  with  the  orient  wine : — 
But  when  the  Alpland  winter  rolls 

His  tempests  over  hill  and  glen, 
Let  me  sit  mid  the  steaming  bowls 

That  cheer  the  nights  at  Meyringen. 

Brave  men  are  there  with  hands  adroit 
At  every  game  our  land  deems  good, — 

To  wrestle,  or  to  swing  the  quoit, 
Or  drain  the  bowl  of  brotherhood: — • 


144  AIRS    FROM    ALPLAND. 

And  when  the  last  wild  chase  is  through, 
We'll  sit  together,  gray-haired  men, 

And,  with  the  gay  Lisette  to  brew, 
Once  more  be  young  in  Meyringen. 


THE   WARNING.  145 


THE   WARNING. 


THE  song  was  done;  they  raised  their  eyes, 
And  saw  between  them  and  the  skies 
A  figure  standing  dark  and  mute 

That  on  a  gleaming  rifle  leant, 
And  all  his  form  from  head  to  foot 

Was  painted  on  the  firmament. 
So  still  he  stood,  the  quickest  eye 
In  its  first  gazing  toward  the  sky 
Glanced  twice,  before  discerning  if 

The  dusky  shape  were  man  or  cliff. 
10 


146  AIRS   FROM   ALPLAND. 

At  length,  a  voice — so  high  and  loud 
It  seemed  descending  from  the  cloud — 
Swept  down  along  the  swelling  gale, 
And  made  the  stoutest  hearer  quail. 
"  I  charge  ye,  on !     I  charge  ye,  speed ! 
And  every  gust  proclaims  the  need. 
By  all  the  surest  mountain  signs, 
By  all  the  wailing  of  the  winds, — 
And  by  the  sobbing  of  the  pines, — 
And  by  that  avalanche  which  now 
Gives  warning  through  the  vale  below, — 
By  yonder  rising  cloud,  whose  wrath 
Makes  desperate  the  safest  path, 
I  know  the  blast  must  soon  perform 
The  bidding  of  the  monarch  storm." 


STORM    ON    ST.  BERNARD. 


STORM  ON   ST.  BERNARD. 


OH,  Heaven,  it  is  a  fearful  thing 
Beneath  the  tempest's  beating  wing 
To  struggle,  like  a  stricken  hare 
When  swoops  the  monarch  bird  of  air; 
To  breast  the  loud  winds'  fitful  spasms, 
To  brave  the  cloud  and  shun  the  chasms, 
Tossed  like  a  fretted  shallop-sail 
Between  the  ocean  and  the  gale. 

Along  the  valley,  loud  and  fleet, 
The  rising  tempest  leapt  and  roared, 


148  AIRS    FROM    ALPLAND. 

And  scaled  the  Alp,  till  from  his  seat 

The  throned  Eternity  of  Snow 
His  frequent  avalanches  poured 

In  thunder  to  the  storm  below. 

The  laden  tempest  wildly  broke 

O'er  roaring  chasms  and  rattling  cliffs, 
And  on  the  pathway  piled  the  drifts; 
And  every  gust  was  like  a  wolf, — 

And  there  was  one  at  every  cloak, — 

That,  snarling,  dragged  toward  the  gulf. 

The  staggering  mule  scarce  kept  his  pace, 
With  ears  thrown  back  and  shoulders  bowed; 

The  surest  guide  could  barely  trace 
The  difference  'twixt  earth  and  cloud; 

And  every  form,  from  foot  to  face, 
Was  in  a  winding-sheet  of  snow : 
The  wind,  'twas  like  the  voice  of  wo 

That  howled  above  their  burial-place ! 


STORM    ON    ST.  BERNARD.  149 

And  now,  to  crown  their  fears,  a  roar 
Like  ocean  battling  with  the  shore, 
Or  like  that  sound  which  night  and  day 
Breaks  through  Niagara's  veil  of  spray, 
From  some  great  height  within  the  cloud, 

To  some  immeasured  valley  driven, 
Swept  down,  and  with  a  voice  so  loud 

It  seemed  as  it  would  shatter  heaven  ! 
The  bravest  quailed ;  it  swept  so  near, 

It  made  the  ruddiest  cheek  to  blanch, 
While  look  replied  to  look  in  fear, 

"The  avalanche!     The  avalanche!" 
It  forced  the  foremost  to  recoil, 

Before  its  sideward  billows  thrown, — 
Who  cried,  "  O  God !     Here  ends  our  toil ! 

The  path  is  overswept  and  gone !" 

The  night  came  down.     The  ghostly  dark, 
Made  ghostlier  by  its  sheet  of  snow, 
Wailed  round  them  its  tempestuous  wo, 


150  AIRS    FROM    ALPLAN7D. 

Like  Death's  announcing  courier !     "  Hark  ! 
There,  heard  you  not  the  alp-hound's  bark? 
And  there  again !   and  there  !     Ah,  no, 
'Tis  but  the  blast  that  mocks  us  so !" 

Then  through  the  thick  and  blackening  mist 
Death  glared  on  them,  and  breathed  so  near, 

Some  felt  his  breath  grow  almost  warm, 
The  while  he  whispered  in  their  ear 

Of  sleep  that  should  out-dream  the  storm. 
Then  lower  drooped  their  lids, — when,   "  List ; 
Now,  heard  you  not  the  storm-bell  ring  ? 

And  there  again,  and  twice  and  thrice ! 
Ah,  no,  'tis  but  the  thundering 

Of  tempests  on  a  crag  of  ice !" 

Death  smiled  on  them,  and  it  seemed  good 

On  such  a  mellow  bed  to  lie : 

The  storm  was  like  a  lullaby, 
And  drowsy  pleasure  soothed  their  blood. 


STORM    ON    ST.  BERNARD.  151 

But  still  the  sturdy,  practised  guide 
His  unremitting  labour  plied; 
Now  this  one  shook  until  he  woke, 
And  closer  wrapt  the  other's  cloak, — 
Still  shouting  with  his  utmost  breath, 

To  startle  back  the  hand  of  Death, 

Brave  words  of  cheer!     "But,  hark  again, 

Between  the  blasts  the  sound  is  plain; 

The  storm,  inhaling,  lulls, — and  hark! 

It  is — it  is  !  the  alp-dog's  bark !    ••-  I 

And  on  the  tempest's  passing  swell — 
The  voice  of  cheer  so  long  debarred — 

There  swings  the  Convent's  guiding-bell, 
The  sacred  bell  of  Saint  Bernard!" 

Then  how  they  gained,  though  chilled  and  faint, 

The  Convent's  hospitable  door, 
And  breathed  their  blessing  on  the  saint 

Who  guards  the  traveller  as  of  yore,— 


152  AIRS   FROM   ALPLAND. 

Were  long  to  tell : — And  then  the  night 
And  unhoused  winter  of  the  height, 

Were  rude  for  audience  such  as  mine; 
The  harp,  too,  wakes  to  more  delight, 
The  fingers  take  a  freer  flight, 

When  warmed  between  the  fire  and  wine. 
The  storm  around  the  fount  of  song 
Has  blown  its  blast  so  chill  and  long, 
What  marvel  if  it  freeze  or  fail. 
Or  that  its  spray  returns  in  hail! 
Or,  rather,  round  my  muse's  wings 
The  encumbering  snow,  though  melting,  clings 
So  thickly,  she  can  scarce  do  more 
Than  flounder  where  she  most  would  soar. 

The  hand  benumbed,  reviving,  stings, 
And  with  thick  touches  only  brings 

The  harp-tones  out  by  fits  and  spells, — 
You  needs  must  note  how  all  the  strings 

Together  jar  like  icicles ! 


STORM   ON    ST.  BERNARD  153 

Then  heap  the  hearth  and  spread  the  board, 
And  let  the  glowing  flasks  be  poured, 
While  I  beside  the  roaring  fire 
Melt  out  the  music  of  my  lyre. 


154  AIRS   FROM    ALT'LAND. 


FANCIES   IN   THE  FIRELIGHT, 

IN  THE  CONVENT  OF  ST.  BERNARD. 

OH,  it  is  a  joy  to  gaze 
Where  the  great  logs  lie  ablaze; 
Thus  to  list  the  garrulous  flame 
Muttering  like  some  ancient  dame; 
And  to  hear  the  sap  recount 
Stories  of  its  native  mount, 
Telling  of  the  summer  weather, 
When  the  trees  swayed  all  together, — 


FANCIES    IN    THE    FIRELIGHT.  155 

How  the  little  birds  would  launch 
Arrowy  songs  from  branch  to  branch, 
Till  the  leaves  with  pleasure  glistened, 
And  each  great  bough  hung  and  listened 
To  the  song  of  thrush  and  linnet, 
When  securely  lodged  within  it, 
With  all  pleasant  sounds  that  dally 
Round  the  hill  and  in  the  valley; 
Till  each  log  and  branch  and  splinter 
On  the  ancient  hearth  of  Winter 
Can  do  naught  but  tell  the  story 
Of  its  transient  summer  glory. 

Oh,  there's  tranquil  joy  in  gazing 
Where  these  great  logs  lie  ablazing, 
While  the  wizard  flame  is  sparkling, 
The  memorial  shadows  darkling 
Swim  the  wall  in  strange  mutation, 
Till  the  marvelling  contemplation 


156  AIRS   FROM   ALPLANP. 

Feeds  its  wonder  to  repletion 
With  each  firelight  apparition. 

There  the  ashen  Alp  appears, 
And  its  glowing  head  uprears, 
Like  a  warrior  grim  and  bold, 
With  a  helmet  on  of  gold; 
And  a  music  goes  and  comes 
Like  the  sound  of  distant  drums. 

O'er  a  line  of  serried  lances 
How  the  blazing  banner  dances, 
While  red  pennons  rise  and  fall 
Over  ancient  Hannibal. 

Lo,  beneath  a  moon  of  fire, 

Where  the  meteor  sparks  stream  by  her. 

There  I  see  the  brotherhood 

Which  on  sacred  Griitli  stood, 


FANCIES   IN   THE   FIRELIGHT.  157 

Pledging  with  crossed  hands  to  stand 
The  defenders  of  the  land. 

And  in  that  red  ember  fell 
Gessler,  with  the  dart  of  Tell! 

Still  they  fall  away,  and,  lo ! 
Other  phantoms  come  and  go, 
Other  banners  wing  the  air, — 
And  the  countless  bayonets  glare, 
While  around  the  steep  way  stir 
Armies  of  the  conqueror; 
And  the  slow  mule  toiling  on 
Bears  the  world's  Napoleon. 

Now  the  transient  flame  that  flashes 
'Twixt  the  great  logs  and  the  ashes, 
Sends  a  voice  out  from  the  middle 
That  my  soul  cannot  unriddle, — 


158  AIRS    FROM    ALPLAND. 

Till  the  fire  above  and  under 
Gnaws  the  stoutest  wood  asunder, 
And  the  brands,  in  ruin  blended, 
Smoking,  lie  uncomprehended, — 
While  the  dying  embers  blanch, 
And  the  muffled  avalanche, 
Noiseless  as  the  years  descend, 
Sweeps  them  to  an  ashen  end. 
Thus  at  last  the  great  shall  be, 

And  the  slave  shall  lie  with  them,- 
Pi6  Jesu  Domine 

Dona  eis  requiem  ! 


THE   END. 


STEREOTYPED   BY   I..   JOirNSOX   AND   CO. 
PHILADELPHIA. 


*  -  :v  v 


Sylvia. 


svl 


M181632 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


